#here lies dobby

[saintzweig]

as a christmas treat (for myself mostly), here's how i think gift giving would go with my favorite characters!! (characters giving you presents)

art, patrick, tashi ୨ৎ challengers

– younger art would love giving you handmade gifts, your first christmas together he gave you a sweater his grandma had knitted just for you (molly weasley vibes eek) and the second year, he had her teach him how to knit so he can make it himself. it wasn't perfect, in fact a little bit wonky in some places but he was so so proud of it and put his heart and soul into making it.

– older art is very into christmas, he'd be ordering the perfect white christmas tree and convince you to decorate with him. and not even halfway through december the bottom is already filled up with presents he got for you (he bought your entire online shopping cart without you knowing) and aside from those he'd plan date nights as part of your presents, gingerbread houses, movie marathons, scrapbook making, anything teeth rotting sweet.

– patrick in general is very bad at christmas, not because he's jewish but because his family is so indifferent with the holiday. so really his only experience with gift giving is with art and well, you're not art so. you seem to really value christmas and he can see how you're so excited to give and receive presents and he doesn't want to disappoint you by giving you nothing so his solution is to buy you the most expensive products– handbags, perfumes, makeup but when he sees the uncomfortable smile on your face he's instantly sweating.

– older patrick wouldn't be able to buy you anything since he can barely get by so he makes it up to you by taking you on roadtrips, which is far better than any inanimate object can give you. driving through the different states, blasting and singing along to music and laughing all throughout, not to mention the sex every single time you stop by to get gas (he may or may not intentionally not fill the tank all the way just so it can happen more often, expensive? yes but it's worth it)

– i think tashi in general loves spoiling you, keeping a list of things you've mentioned all throughout the year that you've wanted to buy but never done it. she surprises you with a picnic basket filled to the brim with all those things, mixed with a few handmade gifts of course. at one point, she'll make your gift in advance in the form of an advent calendar that her sisters helped her out with. she also loves buying a journal with you at the end of every year for you to fill up and go through at christmas.

jess mariano ୨ৎ gilmore girls

– jess before christmas would be so hard to reach because he's working his ass off at the diner and at walmart, just so he can take you to a nice restaurant and give you a nice gift, and then he sees the gifts you've received from other people and feels insecure about what he got for you that he just lies and tells you he forgot to buy a gift. and he sees the way you're trying to hide your disappointed by acting like its fine and that christmas is more than just gifts that he couldn't take it anymore :( just pulls you aside at the end of the night and gives you a set of handmade jewelry (necklace, rings and earrings), tells you he's been attending a workshop so he can make you something special. you haven't taken it off during that night.

harry potter ୨ৎ

– this boy goes all the way when it comes to giving you gifts, why should he be stingy about it when he's got the money and the loveliest partner? he takes you shopping, buys you a bundle of books, clothes, let's you pick out his new broom so he can take you riding. ends the day by bringing you to a picnic by the black lake :") with snacks dobby helped him prepare, oh also he got dobby a sweater because why not!!

stiles stilinski ୨ৎ teen wolf

– i think he's the type to go around and say he's the best at gift giving when he's erm, not exactly that. he can hardly wrap a gift properly even when it's the easiest shape so i don't think he'd care for it. he'll give you books or videogames that he's been wanting to read or play with you (that's code for these gifts are actually for me) and your christmas dinner is pizza. but he makes up for it by having so much fun with you and giving you the best time :)

edward cullen ୨ৎ twilight

– his credit card ... or he'd buy you a luxury car or an apartment ... because what's stopping him?

୨ৎ message from mars!

merry christmas my beloved tumblr friends!!! so so thankful that 600 of you put of with my bullshit for months now and actually enjoy some of them :") i love you guys even though i struggle to show it (with replies and stuff, i get overwhelmed pretty easily lol) but despite that i want you all to know that being on here helped me get through a lot of things and that's all thanks to you!!!

also i would've written more but i literally forgot everything i've ever seen and every character i've ever loved... i'm just a girl really

[skywalker1dream]

Obsession in Overdrive

Jenson Button x journalist!reader

note: so I was writing part 2 of web of obsession and I accidentally deleted it, I really don't know how I did it (I want to bang my head to something like dobby banged his head with lamp)

Summary:You are a dedicated and ambitious journalist covering the world of Formula 1. Your latest assignment brings you face-to-face with Jenson Button, a charismatic and skilled driver. However, beneath his charming exterior lies a dark and obsessive personality. As Jenson becomes fixated on you, what starts as innocent professional admiration quickly spirals into a dangerous obsession, leading you into a web of passion, control, and peril. (you will find out that in part two)

Warnings: Im not good with warnings T_T sorry....

--

The roar of engines and the scent of burning rubber filled the air, the unmistakable ambiance of a Grand Prix weekend. You adjusted your press pass, the laminated card dangling from a lanyard around your neck. This assignment was a dream come true covering the world of Formula 1, where speed and glamour intertwined.

The paddock was alive with activity. Engineers tweaked car settings, team members rushed about with tools and equipment, and the drivers, the stars of this high-octane circus, moved with an air of focused determination. You had been following the sport for years, but being here, amidst the chaos and excitement, was a different experience altogether.

You were here for one reason: an exclusive interview with Jenson Button, the seasoned driver known not just for his skill on the track, but for his charm and charisma off it. He was a favorite among fans and media alike, and getting time with him was a coup for any journalist.

You arrived at the McLaren team’s hospitality suite, a sleek and modern area buzzing with activity. The room was filled with a mix of team personnel, sponsors, and a few journalists, all engaged in animated conversation. The decor was elegant but functional, with the team’s colors prominently displayed.

You spotted Jenson almost immediately. He was deep in conversation with a team engineer, but as soon as he saw you, his face lit up with a smile. He excused himself and walked over, his stride confident and relaxed.

“Ah, you must be [your name]” he greeted, extending a hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, his touch lingering a fraction longer than necessary.

“Yes, thank you for taking the time to speak with me,” you replied, trying to maintain your professional demeanor despite the fluttering in your stomach. He was even more handsome in person, his blue eyes sparkling with a mix of intelligence and mischief.

“Anything for a lovely journalist,” he said, his tone smooth as silk. “Shall we?”

He led you to a quieter corner of the suite, where a small table and two chairs had been set up for the interview. As you settled into your seat, you couldn’t help but notice how his presence seemed to command the space around him. He was effortlessly charming, his smile warm and inviting.

The interview began with the usual pleasantries. Jenson answered your questions with ease, his responses peppered with humor and insight. He spoke about his passion for racing, the challenges of the season, and his hopes for the future. His answers were thoughtful and articulate, revealing a depth of character that went beyond his public persona.

Yet, as the conversation progressed, you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze lingered on you, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of your face. His eyes would occasionally flicker down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You shifted in your seat, trying to maintain your composure. This was just another interview, you told yourself, albeit with one of the most charming men you’d ever met. But there was something about the way he looked at you that made your pulse quicken.

“So, [your name],” Jenson said, leaning forward slightly, “what got you into journalism? And more specifically, why Formula 1?”

You smiled, appreciating his genuine interest. “I’ve always loved writing, and I’ve been a fan of motorsports since I was a kid. There’s something about the combination of speed, skill, and strategy that fascinates me. Plus, the stories behind the drivers and teams are incredibly compelling.”

Jenson nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s true, there’s a lot more to this sport than just racing. The dedication, the sacrifices... it’s a whole world unto itself.”

You continued talking, sharing stories and laughing together. Despite the professional nature of the interview, it felt more like a conversation between friends. Jenson had a way of making you feel at ease, his genuine interest and warm demeanor drawing you in.

As the interview came to an end, you thanked Jenson and began to gather your things. “This was great, Jenson. Thank you so much for your time.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied, standing up and extending his hand once more. “I hope we get to do this again soon.”

His hand was warm around yours, and as he held your gaze, you couldn’t help but feel a spark of something more than professional admiration. You quickly pushed the thought aside, reminding yourself of your role and responsibilities.

“Take care, love,” Jenson said, his smile lingering as he watched you leave.

As you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that your encounter with Jenson Button was just the beginning of something much more complex and intense than a simple interview.

------------------

Later that evening, you returned to your hotel room, still buzzing from the excitement of the day. You had a lot of work to do transcribing the interview, writing up your notes, and preparing your article. But before you could get started, a knock at the door interrupted your thoughts.

You opened it to find a hotel staff member holding a small, beautifully wrapped box. “Miss [your name] this was left for you at the front desk.”

Surprised, you took the box and thanked him. As you closed the door, curiosity got the better of you. You carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a delicate silver bracelet with a charm in the shape of a racing car. It was exquisite, and clearly expensive.

There was a card inside, written in elegant script: “A token of appreciation. – Jenson.”

Your heart skipped a beat. It was a thoughtful gift, but also oddly personal for someone you’d just met. You slipped the bracelet onto your wrist, admiring how it caught the light. It was beautiful, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something more.

Pushing aside your unease, you sat down at your laptop and began to write. Yet, as you worked, your thoughts kept drifting back toJenson his smile, his charm, and the intensity in his eyes. This was supposed to be just another assignment, but you had a feeling that it was going to be anything but ordinary.

----------------

Over the next few weeks, you found yourself running into Jenson more frequently. At first, it seemed like coincidence, he’d be at the coffee shop you frequented, or passing by the media center just as you were leaving. Each time, he’d greet you warmly, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

“You again,” you joked one afternoon, unable to hide your smile. “Are you following me, Mr. Button?”

He chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Just lucky, I guess. Besides, I enjoy our little chats.”

His attention was flattering, and you couldn’t deny the growing attraction. Yet, beneath the surface, there was something unsettling about his constant presence. It was as if he always knew where you’d be.

One evening, as you left the paddock, you found Jenson waiting by your car. “Let me take you to dinner,” he offered, his tone more commanding than requesting.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have a lot of work to do,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

His smile faltered, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. “Another time then,” he said, but his tone suggested it wasn’t really a question.

_______

The next morning, you received a text from an unknown number: Good morning, [your name]. Hope you have a great day. – Jenson. (-sent from my iphoen) (iykyk)

You stared at the message, a mix of emotions swirling inside you. You hadn’t given him your number, which meant he must have gone out of his way to get it. Part of you was flattered by his persistence, but another part couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort.

As the days passed, Jenson’s presence in your life grew. He sent you flowers, left small gifts at your hotel, and always seemed to be around. It was becoming harder to focus on your work with him constantly on your mind.

During a press conference, you caught Jenson’s eye from across the room. He was surrounded by reporters, but his gaze was fixed on you. He smiled, a knowing look in his eyes that made your heart race. After the conference, he made his way over to you.

“Can I steal you away for a bit?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.

You hesitated, glancing around at your colleagues who were busy typing up their notes. “I really should finish my article.”

“It’ll only take a minute,” he promised, his hand gently guiding you towards a more secluded area. “I wanted to give you something.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a small, wrapped box. “Another gift?” you asked, your voice tinged with both curiosity and caution.

“Just a little something to remind you of me,” he said with a smile.

You unwrapped the box to find a delicate necklace with a pendant shaped like a steering wheel. It was beautiful, but the personal nature of the gift sent a shiver down your spine.

“Jenson, this is lovely, but you really don’t have to keep giving me things,” you said, trying to sound gracious.

“I want to,” he insisted, his eyes intense. “You’re special, love. I feel a connection with you.”

His words made your heart flutter, but also triggered a warning bell in your mind. “Thank you, Jenson. I appreciate it, really. But I.....I have to get back to work now.”

He nodded, but the look in his eyes told you he wasn’t giving up. As you walked away, you felt his gaze lingering on you, a constant, almost tangible presence.

---------------

Later that week, you were sitting in your hotel room, working on your latest article, when your phone buzzed. It was a call from Jenson. You hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Hello?”

“[your name], I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring.

“Not at all. What’s up?”

“I was thinking we could have dinner tonight. There’s a great restaurant not far from your hotel.”

You bit your lip, considering his offer. Part of you wanted to say yes, to enjoy an evening with this captivating man. But another part of you was wary of how quickly things were progressing.

“I don’t know, Jenson. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Come on, just one dinner,” he coaxed. “You have to eat, right? Consider it a break.”

His persistence was hard to resist, and before you knew it, you found yourself agreeing. “Okay, fine. One dinner.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said, a note of triumph in his voice.

That evening, Jenson arrived at your hotel right on time. He looked impeccable, dressed in a tailored suit that accentuated his athletic build. As you walked to the restaurant, he kept the conversation light and engaging, his charm easing some of your apprehension.

The restaurant was elegant and intimate, with soft lighting and a view of the city skyline. Jenson had reserved a private table, away from prying eyes. As you sat down, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness.

Throughout dinner, Jenson was the perfect gentleman. He listened attentively as you talked about your career and passions, sharing stories from his own life that made you laugh and feel at ease. Yet, beneath his charm, there was an intensity in his gaze that made your heart race.

[ashesandhackles]

what are your thoughts on the Harry/Dumbledore relationship?

hello! so most of my feelings about harry-dumbledore equation are captured in these metas:

A cold blooded walk to destruction

the lightning struck tower

my favourite moment of Harry and Dumbledore's relationship though is captured in the Life and Lies chapter in Deathly Hallows. I am obsessed with that chapter and obsessed with Harry's feelings in those chapters:

here are my notes from the chapter, cutting it down to Harry-Dumbledore stuff:

The chapter opens with the smallness of Harry against the vast sky, a bird's eye view shot to really highlight how vulnerable he feels. On the heels of the chapters where he sees himself and his family immortalised in statues and have their old home preserved, it feels so stark.

The throughline of connection Harry makes from "People don't like being locked up! You did it to me last summer" to Dumbledore's apparent confinement of Ariana. Unresolved abandonment issues from OOTP, Sirius grief all coming to the surface here.

I am especially struck by the image of Harry's angry shouting making blackbirds fly into the pearly sky, and spiral over him. Blackbirds are associated with mystery, secrets and are seen as messengers to netherworld - this combined with the image of pearly white sky (heavens/God) seems intentional.

Harry and Hermione throughout Dh have oppositional positions: faith vs rationalist (hallows vs horcruxes), acceptance vs fear of death, and here Rita's book lies between them, a line on the ground.

"Look at what he has asked from me!: :The image of Harry, arms flung over his head - "trying to hold in his anger" or "protect himself from the weight of his disillusionment" is the thing that stays with me from this chapter. (it is reminiscent of Snape's "you have used me! I have spied for you, lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you" - basically, "why have you forsaken me?" moment. The chapter being set in whiteness and emptiness, reminiscent of King's Cross chapter where Harry does get his answers from Dumbledore is very striking)

Hermione, who has modified her parents memories, can confidently assert that "He loved you, I know he loved you", because her love for her parents, for Ron can also be sacrificed at the altar of greater good, even if it means doing things that would hurt them and dismiss their agency (as is with her parents). It doesn't mean she doesn't love them. Harry dropping his arms when she says this - he wants to believe it, he hopes to believe it but doesn't. But with Ron's return in Silver Doe, Harry will be on his path to be Dumbledore's man again.

From the Silver doe chapter: The discussion on Dumbledore with Ron shows the nature of faith Harry has in the moment: "Dumbledore's dead. He's definitely gone" vs in Chamber of Secrets where he says, "he will only be gone from the school when none here are loyal to him". With the faith in Cos, he was rewarded with Fawkes and Sorting Hat. Further illustration of where Harry is - Ron not thinking the Grindelwald stuff was a big deal ("he was really young") vs Harry ("he was our age").

Malfoy Manor chapters: In keeping with the faith aspect of the book, when Harry is at his most helpless- he asks the shard of mirror, where he kept thinking he is seeing Dumbledore's eye -for help. Dobby comes through.

Shell Cottage chapters: Harry understands the path Dumbledore laid out for him, but wishes he could understand Dumbledore himself. ( Ron and Harry's conversation about Voldemort - "You really understand him." "Bits of him -- I wish I understood Dumbledore as much.")

By the chapters where Harry meets Aberforth, Harry gains an understanding of Dumbledore's emotionality - "He was never free... never. The night your brother died - he took a potion that drove him mad. 'Don't hurt them-please, hurt me instead' " Harry points out how watching Aberforth and Ariana being hurt was torture to him, and emphasises his commitment to Dumbledore's cause, "Because sometimes you've got to think of the Greater Good! This is war!"

King's Cross chapter - Harry gets his answers. :)

Harry's journey to understand Dumbledore is extremely profound, and Harry's forgiveness of what Dumbledore put him through (with regards to his agency - which is Harry's main issue) comes from a very reflective, thoughtful space. Therefore, he names his second son after the two men riddled by guilt, seeking to atone for the harmful things they had done by committing to a greater cause.

[sunwarmed-ash]

Ah Fuck it, Friday

Alright I made the executive decision that Love bites, but so do I will be getting the Sinful Sunday slot this week! BUT I've also been working on alot of older wips this week. Like Silence isn't golden for example!

Here's a little sneak preview of the next chapter! It's not enough for me to make it a standalone chapter yet but I know this one has a few very dedicated and sweet fans 💚 this is for yall!!! thanks for sticking with it!

TW's: kidnapping/torture mention

Fanom: Harry Potter- Post HBP, Drarry, first person POV, heavy angst fic

Finally, FINALLY we have a lead.  Ron, Hermione, Dobby, and I burst through the doors of the Edinburgh flat without feeling the wrath of any of the spells that hurt Dobby.  “That cannot be a good sign,” I sigh irritability as the four of us split off in the small flat for any clues we can find.  There isn't much, this place has been scrubbed clean, metaphorically and literally with magic. And that’s more suspicious than if they had just left it.  There has to be something else here. Something to help us.  “This is the room I found him in,” Dobby says, pointing to a room I hadn’t initially seen. Once inside, I realize its barely a few cubic meters bigger than the bedroom I grew up in. The only difference is this one has a bathroom.  It's also the only thing in the house that still has remnants of any proof of life.  When they fled, Snape scrubbed any proof of himself from the premises. The same extension did not apply to Draco. All of his things were still here. Clothes, books, empty potion bottles, small trinkets stashed behind the bed for safe keeping. Things Draco treasured enough to keep around and Snape made sure they leave behind.   My hatred for Snape grew stronger the longer I looked over the room. It didn't take a master aurour to piece together some of the atrocities that went on in this room based solely on the state of things. If I wasn’t so desperate to preserve the scene in efforts to find Draco faster, I would have blown the room apart.  

Azkaban

Snape slinks through the prison easily and without attracting any attention. It’s a true testament to how snake-like the slytherin truly is. Moving silently and efficiency through the shadows had started as a defence against school bullies but now serves him in the real world, hiding from forces much, much stronger.  “Lucius?” The hollowed out shell of a man blinks up from his cell, his pale, empty eyes growing wide when he sees the other man’s face.  “Severus!” “Silence!” Snape bites, because his invisibility only extends so far. If Lucius screams his attendance it doesn't matter how fast he moved past the guards.  “Yes, sorry, sorry my friend, it's just- so good to see you! You don’t know what it's like here.” “I've been working on your case,” Snape maneuvers past pleasantries onto the task at hand. “Crafting alibis. It hasn't been easy.” “And my son, how, how is he?” Lucius asks, face obviously fighting to will down tears that wish to spill.  Severus doesn't blink when he lies.   “He’s dead.” “W-What?” “Slain, by Harry Potter. I tried to keep Draco hidden. But you know him, his disobedience has never been able to be reigned. He snuck out, and was executed.” “Draco- Draco is-”  Snape grabs Lucius’ hand through the bars.  “Yes, but you are not, Lucius. We don’t have time to grieve, every minute we wait, is another day closer to your execution.” “You're right, you're right,” Lucius sniffles, squeezing Snape’s hand before breaking away to wipe away his tears. “Thank you my friend, I don't know where I’d be without you.”

Edinburgh flat

I'm still not sure what pulls me in the direction of this evidence, whether it's my intuition or something magical but im both infinitely grateful and horrified to have followed this instinct to fruition.  The notebook I found was buried under a magical spell ive never seen before. Thankfully, brilliant Hermione has, and after a moment, the chest is unlocking, revealing a single book. Theres no outside descriptors, and the magic glamour on it is making it look older than it is. Another disguise to shroud its contents.  The bad feeling grows stronger as I leaf through the parchment pages.  - I’m barely through week two of Draco’s retellings of his torturous days in Snape’s care before my guts are spilling all over the floor of the flat.  “Oy! Gross Harry!” Ron scolds, which is fair, I nearly hit him with it.  “Are you alright?” Hermione asks, rushing to my side.  I drop the book and shake my head. I can't look at it any more. I know I need to. To help find Draco. But I can’t right now.  “What is that?” Ron asks and I can't make my mouth move.  He moves to pick up the book and I snap. “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH THAT!” Ron’s hands go up in reflexive surrender, “Whoa! Hell Harry! Okay!” “Harry,” Hermione asks again, her own fear and concern growing stronger, “what is it?” I close my eyes and exhale.  “It's so much worse than we thought…”

See you sunday! 😘

[whinlatter]

Please can you tell us more about your thoughts on the imagery of Dobby's death?

Partly it’s that I think Dobby’s death was worth it for the scenes of Harry at Shell Cottage, digging that grave by hand in that bleak beautiful garden at the end of the earth, honestly. Those are some of my favourite passages and some of the most beautiful writing in the entire series. Because also like, the foreshadowing. Both before he’s freed from the obligations to wizards imposed by his enslavement, and after, Dobby chooses a brave, righteous course of action that ends in self-sacrifice. Harry buries him, grieves him, writes that epitaph - Here lies Dobby, a free elf - and then, in the hours after, sets in motion a path that will, on some level, mirror Dobby’s. With his own free will, Harry picks the horcruxes, not the Hallows: Harry Potter, the Chosen One who actually chooses to be the Chosen One, over and over again, not because he has to, but because he believes it’s right to, and also who will make the ultimate sacrifice. Like damn yes sorry Dobby you had to die that arc is 💥 too good 💥

(I actually am sat on a meta about Harry after Dobby’s death at Shell Cottage lmao - obviously it’s kind of Hinny-focussed because, you know, the hyper fixation with Harry and Ginny is really hyper fixating these days, but kind of about Harry’s grief in the arc of the DH plot… Maybe I will post it? It’s a mess I’ll tell you. I just really love those Shell Cottage chapters, man, cannot get enough)

Thank you for asking friend! ❤️

Update: posted the meta!

[speedymoviesbyscience]

So, that inspired me and I wrote a little story. Here you go:

Harry and Draco were sitting with their friends in the 8th year common room. They were really relieved that their friends did take it so easy that they were dating each other.

After a short quiet period Pansy spoke up: “But in retrospect, it was really obvious that you always wanted more from each other. Remember the time your father got mad at you, Draco, because you didn't stop talking about Harry for the entire summer after first year? We really should have caught on.”

Draco groaned at this and hid in Harrys shoulder: “As you speak of that, I always wondered why Dobby knew so much about me and why he deemed me worthy of being helped, even against his masters wishes. That was also before second year.” Draco groaned again and murmured a silent: “traitor” in Harrys ear.

Ron chuckled lightly: “You're one to speak! I remember you calling Draco your arch nemesis just a few months after Voldemort tried to murder you for the second time. Who the hell dies that? And then you admitted to missing even him, when you were at your relatives. We really should have realized.”

“Yeah,” Seamus chimed in, “remember the one time on the train, where Harry got hit in the head by luggage as he was to busy watching Draco change?” All of them snorted and giggled. Know it was time for Harry to hide in Dracos shoulder.

Ginny, who was snuggled into Blaise added: “Or the time he forgot I was possessed and nearly murderd by Voldemort but could remember every item he saw Draco looking at in Borgin and Burkes 4 years previously ?” - “Oh, stop it, please! We’ve understood, I was an idiot.” Harry groaned into Draco, but their friends weren’t willing to stop.

“Oh, yes, I remember after Harry stalked Draco for nearly the entire 6th year he even lied to the Order and Magical Law Enforcement to obfuscate Draco’s crimes. If that's not love what is?” Hermione added.

“ I know, during the battle Voldemort immediately assumed that Draco had gone looking for Harry, when he was missing during the Battle of Hogwarts…and he was right.” Blaise chuckled.

“Yeah, well. Even my mother assumed you knew where I was and if I was alive during the battle, she was also right “ Draco added.

Harry resurfaced from his hiding place on Dracos chest and smiled at Draco: “Maybe we loved each other the whole time and maybe we weren’t really good at hiding this.” Draco also smiled, leaned back into the couch and held an arm open for Harry to snuggle in. “Well yes, maybe. But I at least we got it right.”

At this all of them nodded and smiled at their partners and friends in this odd mix of Gryffindors and Slytherins snuggled up into each other on light lavender couches, nearly all of them being a little to old to being still at school but also feeling increadbly happy for beeing alive.

7 most unhinged canon drarry moments

Harry calling Draco his arch nemesis just a few months after Lord Voldemort tried to murder him for the second time but also immediately thinking that he kinda misses him

Harry getting hit in the head by a piece of luggage because he got so distracted by the sight of Draco changing that he didn’t notice someone swinging a large object at his face

Harry lying to the Order and Magical Law Enforcement to obfuscate Draco’s crimes at the end of sixth year

Voldemort immediately assuming Draco has gone looking for Harry when he goes missing during the Battle of Hogwarts…and being right

Narcissa assuming Harry will know where Draco is and if he’s still alive…and being right

Lucius getting mad at Draco in book 2 because he has spent the entire summer talking nonstop about Harry Potter

Harry forgetting about the time Voldemort possessed and nearly murdered Ginny but remembering every item he saw Draco look at in Borgin and Burkes 4 years previously

[triangularitydubs]

ACT I PART SIX

The Overlord Xaine was overlooking the fighting grounds, his gaze fixated on the chaos below. He watched through Bubble’s eyes—the strange, glassy sensory orbs that allowed him a detached view of his Fighters as they trained.

Today, there was a heaviness in his core, an unease coiling around him like a serpent.

Two Warrior’s—Bone Pastor and Dobby—had been Crossed Out, deleted from existence under his command.

A decision he made in haste, something he wished he hadn’t done.

“Today will not end the same,” Xaine murmured to himself, trying to quiet the stirring doubt. He had high hopes for these five Warriors, yet he sensed it was only the beginning of even darker trials ahead.

Across the training grounds, Kinger—the King Chess piece—swinging his crook with alarming ferocity, felt a strange tug, a distant voice reaching out to him.

It was scratchy, glitchy, and compelling, whispering promises of secrets hidden beneath layers of static.

He glanced around, heart racing, ensuring that Bubble was too absorbed in the onslaught of training to notice him slip away.

The call grew stronger, pulling him until he found himself standing before the arena. There, a figure flickered into being, a distortion of form that gradually took on the grotesque shape of a skeleton—Bone Pastor.

Kinger’s eyes widened in horror; the skeletal warrior he had heard echoes of was now in front of him, fragmented yet somehow vast and imposing, one side of his face obscured in shadow, his eye pulsating with an ominous purple light.

“How… how is this possible?” Kinger stammered, a mix of fear and intrigue coursing through him. “You were Crossed Out. You shouldn’t be here!”

“Ah, but the lines blur between life and death in this digital realm,” Bone Pastor croaked, his voice garbled and heavy with static.

“My arm was severed before deletion, giving me an echo here, a half-life. It’s unstable—my form flickers like an old projector, but I still have thoughts… and vengeance.”

Kinger swallowed hard. “Vengeance?”

“Yes. Squiggles, Cal, and even Xaine himself. They took my life, Kinger!” Bone Pastor pressed.

“You have a chance to do what I could not. The gauntlet for your fight is coming soon... the perfect time to sabotage it!”

Unease washed over Kinger, instinctively rejecting the tantalizing offer.

Yet, the seed of doubt sowed after watching the disillusionment of Bone Pastor began to take root in him. “I—I don’t know. Xaine… he’s… he’s..."

Bone Pastor’s form flickered erratically, bleeding out into the surrounding air as he interuppted Kinger“His power is your prison, Kinger. Realize it before it’s too late.”

With that, Bone Pastor began to fade, leaving Kinger lost in a torrent of thoughts and accusations.

Just as he found himself grasping onto the implications, he jolted as he felt an unmistakable presence behind him.

“Is everything all right, Kinger?” Xaine’s voice boomed like thunder across the arena, a hint of suspicion lacing his tone.

Caught off guard, Kinger’s heart raced. “Uh, yes, Overlord! Just… training my moves, preparing for the gauntlet.”

Xaine raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You should be careful where your attention lies.” Taking a step closer, he leaned in, an unsettling energy radiating from him. “I can see into your mind.”

Kinger felt his eyes glow with sudden intensity, the world around him shifting. Xaine captured the thoughts flitting through Kinger’s mind like fireflies—Bone Pastor, sabotage, revenge—each illuminating a darker path Kinger was precariously glancing down.

“Be cautious,” Xaine warned, a tremor of unease beneath his steely facade. “This is your last chance before I must Cross out another faulty Fighter.”

Suddenly aware of the danger, Kinger stood frozen. Xaine’s grip on his mind felt constraining, weighing on him with the threat of eternal darkness should betrayal be revealed.

Guilt washed over him, but so did the rush of exhilaration that came with newfound empowerment.

“Let us return,” Xaine commanded, guiding Kinger back toward the Training Grounds, his mind racing with rebellion and chaos stirring within him.

He knew he wasn’t just training anymore—he was beginning to question everything.

Behind him trailed the static shadow of Bone Pastor, a whisper in the winds of uncertainty.

As Kinger grappled with his sense of loyalty, the line between Master and Traitor.

[houseofspells369]

Where magic awaits at every turn in the world of Harry Potter. Dobby Harry Potter is the one name that stands out with a mixture of loyalty, bravery, and innocence. In the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, nestled between Flourish and Blotts and Ollivanders Wand Shop, lies a hidden gem known as the House of Spells. It's here that fans of Harry Potter can immerse themselves in a treasure trove of magical delights, from spellbooks to potion ingredients. And it's here that we begin our journey into the heartwarming story of Dobby. At the House of Spells, you can find an array of merchandise celebrating Dobby's bravery, from plush toys to intricate figurines. Each item serves as a reminder of the courage and selflessness that define this beloved character. Whether you're a longtime fan or discovering the magic of Harry Potter for the first time, there's something special about holding a piece of Dobby's story in your hands. But Dobby's legacy extends beyond his heroic deeds. He serves as a symbol of the power of friendship, the importance of standing up for what is right, and the belief that even the smallest of creatures can make a big difference in the world. So whether you're searching for the perfect gift for a fellow Harry Potter enthusiast or simply looking to add a touch of magic to your own collection, be sure to visit the House of Spells and pay homage to one of the series' most beloved characters. After all, as Dobby himself would say, "Dobby is free."

[goga-je-pieroga]

"Here lies Dobby, a free elf".

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows J.K. Rowling

[monikeroboogie]

What prevented Harry Potter from summoning Kreacher or Dobby to provide them with food or assistance in the seventh book of the series?

**According to the Harry Potter Wiki, house-elves are magical beings that are immensely devoted and loyal to their masters. They can only be freed when their master presents them with clothes. They also have their own brand of wandless magic, which allows them to perform tasks such as Apparating, where wizards and witches couldn’t. However, their magic is limited by the lack of a wand and the orders of their masters.

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Harry, Ron and Hermione were on the run from the Death Eaters and had to rely on their own magic and skills to survive. They could not summon Dobby or Kreacher to give them food or help them in any way, because they did not own them. Dobby was a free elf, who worked at Hogwarts and was loyal to Harry, but not bound by his orders. Kreacher was owned by Harry, but he was not with him. He was at 12 Grimmauld Place, which was the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix and also Harry’s inherited property. However, Harry could not Apparate to or from the house, because it was under the Fidelius Charm and the Death Eaters were watching it. He also could not communicate with Kreacher, because the house-elf’s magic was blocked by the charm.

The only time Harry summoned Kreacher in the seventh book was when he, Ron and Hermione were captured by the Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor. Harry managed to steal one of the Horcruxes, a locket, from Dolores Umbridge and hid it inside his sock. He then whispered to the locket to summon Kreacher and tell him to rescue them. However, Kreacher did not arrive in time, because Dobby came first. Dobby was able to Apparate in and out of the manor, because house-elves’ magic was different from wizards’ and witches’ and could not be detected or prevented by the wards. Dobby helped Harry and his friends escape, but he was killed by Bellatrix Lestrange in the process.

Therefore, Harry did not summon Dobby or Kreacher to give them food or help them in any way, because he either could not or did not want to. He could not summon Dobby, because he was a free elf and not his servant. He could not summon Kreacher, because he was at 12 Grimmauld Place and his magic was blocked by the Fidelius Charm. He did not want to summon either of them, because he cared about their safety and did not want to put them in danger. He also respected their freedom and dignity and did not want to use them as slaves. He only summoned Kreacher once, when he was desperate and in need of help, but Dobby came instead and sacrificed his life for him. Harry was very grateful and sad for Dobby’s death, and he buried him with his own hands, giving him a proper funeral and a tombstone that read: “Here lies Dobby, a free elf.”**

[hogwartswitch1997]

Here lies Dobby, a FREE ELF

[sulestarlight]

When you remember that one character who died young and unhappy

[sunwarmed-ash]

WIP Wednesday

brought to you by @gryfferin-gaybies 💚 You helped kickstart my muse last night and I wrote the next chapter of Silence isn't golden for you <3

MAJOR ANGST fic (violence, sexual violence, torture)

Chapter 7

Finally, bloody FINALLY, we have a location, and a healed immortal being ready for action. 

Ron, Hermione, Dobby, and I burst through the doors of the Edinburgh flat without any of Dobby's previous spell issues. 

“That can't be a good sign,” I sigh, as the four of us split off in the small flat for any clues we can find. 

There isn’t much, this place has been scrubbed clean, metaphorically and literally with magic. I’m starting to panic. There has to be something here, somoe breadcrumb. Something I’m missing. Otherwise my gut wouldn’t be screaming like it is. 

“This is the room I found him in,” Dobby says, pointing to a room only a handful of cubic meters bigger than the bedroom I grew up in. The only difference is this one has a bathroom. 

It's also, oddly, the only room in the house that still has any previous proof of life. When they fled, Snape scrubbed any and all proof of himself from the premises. The same courtesy did not extend to Draco. All of his things were still here. The red flag it painted couldn’t have been any more obvious if it came up and physically slapped me.

My hatred for Snape grew stronger the longer I looked over the state of the room. It didn't take a detective to piece together some of the atrocities that went on in this room based solely on the state of things. If I wasn’t so desperate to preserve the scene in efforts to find Draco faster, I would have blown the room apart in my fury.  

Azkaban

“Lucius?”

“Severus!”

“Shh,” the dark haired Slytherin hisses, slinking up to the prison cell door the eldest Malfoy was occupying. 

“Yes, sorry, its, its just so good to see you. You don’t know what its like here.”

“I’ve been working on your case,” Snape pivots coldly, “Crafting alibies. It hasn’t been easy.”

“Yes, yes thank you my friend,” Lucius nods, “a-and my son, how, how is he?”

Severus doesn’t blink when he lies, 

“He’s dead.”

Lucius’ head whips up so fast his neck cracks. 

“W-What?”

“Slain, by Harry Potter. I tried to keep Draco hidden. But you know the child, his disobedience has never been able to be managed.”

Lucius is still in shock, his mouth is gaping open unattactively and his face goes impossibly paler. 

“Draco- Draco is-” 

“Yes, but you are not, Lucius. We don’t have time to grieve, every minute we wait is another moment closer to your execution.”

“You're right, you're right,” Lucius sniffles, pushing past his agony for the business at hand. He pushes one skeletal hand through the small, barred, window for Severus. Desperately seeking comfort. “Thank you my friend, I don't know where I’d be without you.”

Edinburgh Flat 

I’m still not sure what pulls me in the direction of the floorboards, whether its intuition or something magical, but I am infinitely grateful and horrified to have followed this instinct to fruition. 

The notebook I found was buried under the floor behind a type of magical ward I’ve never seen before. Thankfully, brilliant Hermione Granger has, and after a moment, the glamor spell around the book is dropping, revealing a small, tattered, handmade notebook. 

The bad I came in with only grows stronger the more I leaf through the parchment pages. 

-

I’m barely though week two of Draco’s retellings of his tortoerous days in Snape’s ‘care’ before my guts are spilling all over the floor of the flat. 

“Oi! Blimey Harry!”

“Are you alright,” Hermione asks, rushing immediately to my side. 

I drop the book. I can’t look at it any more. I know I need to. To help find him. But- after what I just read, I- I just can’t right now. 

“What’s that,” Ron asks, referring to the journal at my feet. I can't make my mouth move. 

He moves to grab it and I snap.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH THAT!”

“Whoa! HELL HARRY! OKAY!”

“Harry, what is it,” Hermione asks, much softer but her fear and concern are obviously increasing the longer I remain silent.

“It’s- it’s so much worse than we thought…”

Confinement chamber: Day 26

The strangest thing about non stop torture, is the warping it does on your psyche. Of course there’s the predictive damage. The fear of confined spaces, strangers, magic, and physical intimacy that would surely follow me for decades after this, but there were unexpected fears that came along as well. Like the terrifying, crushing, aching fear of loneliness. Enough that, even if the only company I have is my attacker, any voice that isn’t my own is welcome. I’ve spent so much time in the haunting emptiness of the quiet.  

I haven’t seen the man who took me since that night. I had passed out before he could torture me further, and after another half dozen, unsuccessful attempts to rouse a confession for a crime I never commited, he gave up. Just like that. And then I was alone again. 

It took me another two days before I found the energy to stand, move, explore. In his haste to leave he forgot to lock my cell. 

He hasn’t returned, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. And I cannot afford the luxury of luck.

I move as slow and as silently as I can through the house. 

Upon further inspecption, it does seem like he is gone. The house is empty. Condemned and abandoned empty. There’s no food in the fridge, no running water, no electricity, not a single scrap of human life anywhere in any part of the house I wasn’t previously occupying. 

I shiver as an unexpected wind cuts through what's left of my clothes. Well, fantastic, no walls either. 

All in all it’s a perfect place to torture someone. Who in their right mind would ever come here? 

[where-our-stories-start]

[whinlatter]

think (harry/ginny) | a microfic

day 13 of @hinnymicrofic | prompt: think

He showers quick, tries to scrub the train off him. Snorts at the sight of Vernon’s large bottle of hair-thickening shampoo. Having stared at his uncle’s head all the way back from London, he reckons Vernon’s due a refund.

There's some lurid deodorant of Dudley's - hair gel, too, looks cheap and shit. He feels a stab of pity for whichever poor girl his cousin’s trying to scrub up for these days. Dudley trying to pull, he thinks with a laugh, Christ. But thoughts of pulling lead to thoughts of girls, which lead, inevitably, to thoughts of Ginny.

He shoves the hair gel back on the shelf. Adds Dudley pulling to the don’t think about it list he’d started making on the train, somewhere around the Cumbrian border, when Ron had offered him a Caramel Kappa, Ginny’s favourite, and he’d wanted to throw up all over the chess board.

The Dursleys had waited all of two seconds after he’d slammed the car boot shut before speeding off to dinner at some miserable gastropub off the M3. Suits him fine, wants to be alone. He stabs a fork through the plastic film of his ready-meal, makes sure to puncture the yellow reduced sticker Petunia's left on for his benefit, and watches the bright white of the mashed potato atop the shepherd’s pie whirling around in the microwave. 

You know, it’s made from real shepherd, he’d said to Ginny once. That’s such a dad joke, she’d said, and he’d said I wouldn’t know and she’d said Potter you get one dead dad joke a day and you already used today’s up at breakfast. Shepherd’s pie is on the don’t think about it list, then, he thinks, just before he burns his fingers sliding the ready meal onto a tray. Probably best add cottage pie, too, same idea. Maybe all savoury pies, play it safe.

He flops down on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, eats straight from the hot plastic as he flicks through channels. The nine o'clock news is all budget this, Hong Kong that, Tim Henman out at Wimbledon. The nine o’clock news is not Dumbledore's dead, Snape murdered him, there’s a war on, Harry Potter's dropped out of school to go hunt bits of Voldemort's dismembered soul. 

Dropped out of school, he thinks. Scandalous, delinquent. What d'you reckon? he asks the Ginny in his head. Harry Potter, troubled dropout? Do anything for you? The Ginny in his head laughs. It’d be fun if she were here, he thinks, curled up next to him on this ugly sofa, taking the piss out of Petunia’s cushion covers and Dudley’s wrestling trophies. Imagines taking her up to his bedroom, pointing out the lamp Dobby whacked himself around the head with. But then the Ginny in his head looks at him and says I never really gave up on you and I knew this would happen in the end, and it all bursts, shatters into a hundred dusty pieces.

He chucks the rest of the meal in the bin, adds dropping out of school to the stupid list. Might as well add the budget, Hong Kong and Tim Henman, why not.

Turns off the telly, goes upstairs and lies on his bed, fully-clothed, staring up at the ceiling, because on the walk from the living room to his bedroom the list has expanded to include his trunk (train, Hogwarts, Ginny), his jumper (still smells a bit like her on the left arm, pathetic), and Hedwig (how does it feel knowing your owl prefers me, Potter?).

He stares out of the window for a while, eyes next door's new extension, which sort of works - ugly nothing suburbia - until he remembers the twins and Ron at the window in a flying Ford Anglia, zooming him off to the Burrow where a little red headed girl is blushing and sticking her elbow in the butter dish and god, this really is shit, isn't it, they weren't lying. She knew then, of course she did. He's never been good at thinking of nothing, has he, and he's thought about her as he falls asleep every day since about October, so what chance does he have now?

He's dreading the dreams the most, knows they'll be unbearable. Almost hopes he dreams of lockets and green light and dead headmasters. Can't be worse than bright brown eyes, freckles on a bottom lip (how do you even get freckles on your bottom lip, Gin? Don't be jealous of my freckles, Potter, just because your skin's so boring), the smell of her hair (what do you mean my hair smells? What is that supposed to mean? Why are you laughing?) and the sound of her laugh and her gasps and the sound of her breathing, soft, lying beside him under the cloak on the lakeshore. Looking down under the table at dinner, seeing her thigh next to his on the bench, hand on his knee, body drawn to his, magnets, magic.

When he wakes groggily the next day - crick in his neck, still in his jeans - his first thought is: he's overslept. He’s missed Ginny on her way down to breakfast, going to be late for Potions, fucked it.

But no, of course not. There’s no Ginny, no breakfast, no Potions. Might still have fucked it, though, who's to say. Don't, he tells himself, as he heads for the bathroom to scrub the night off him, just don't think about it.

now up on AO3 here | ask me anything

[wisteria-blooms]

long hair & tattoos (bill weasley & reader) (15/15) *complete*

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

CHAPTER 15: The day before Bill is set to depart for Egypt, you are torn between two thoughts: to convince him to stay or to let him go. Luckily, help and love come from the unlikeliest of places. (8.5k words) TAG LIST MOVED TO THE BOTTOM!

A/N: Thank you guys for following along on this ride! It's certainly been a fun one. I'm grateful for all your comments and feedback; it really inspires me to write more. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the ending! Of course, feel free to leave any thoughts. (:

 

CHAPTER 15: THAT'S ALRIGHT WITH ME

Being back at Malfoy Manor wasn’t favourable either. You’d have rather hopped on a train somewhere and disappeared into the forest to be left alone with your thoughts. However, this was better than being confined with Fred and George and being teased relentlessly about Bill. Every question they had pushed you to the precipice of admitting the truth and you didn’t want them to hear it. If anything, you wanted Bill to hear first.

“(Y/N)!” Narcissa exclaimed when you walked in the doors just before lunch. She was dressed like she was going out to town later this afternoon. “What are you doing here?”

“I can tell you’re absolutely delighted by my presence.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I am,” Narcissa corrected, her left hand gliding on the stair railing as she descended the steps. “I just wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“I’d like to spend a night or two here before,” you stammered, “the big move.”

“Well, it is your home.” Narcissa pursed her lips. “And speaking of the move, your father wants to see if you need an extension on that lease on the penthouse. We can’t imagine Shell Cottage is very comfortable in the winter.”

“Yeah,” you responded non-committedly. 

“Are you joining us for lunch?” she inquired on the last step down.

“I already ate,” you lied. That was enough to satisfy your mother’s question.

“Then we’ll see you at dinner,” she said, passing you and turning the corner. “I’ll have Dobby prepare another seat.”

You nodded. “Sure.”

When your mother was out of sight, you ran up the stairs and turned the corner to your room. You flung the door open to your room and the weight of the past week hit you like an avalanche. You scrunched your face, trying to alleviate the tingle in your nose that you knew all too well—there were tears behind your eyes.

Your mind reeled back to the pleasant memories you shared with Bill, trying to look for little hints and clues. There had to be a flicker of love in those eyes, even if they were just for a split second. Maybe you were a fool for convincing yourself of it because it was clear that Bill didn’t care; he was moving back to Egypt and didn’t consult you or offer the courtesy of letting you know. You. Didn’t. Matter. The weight of that thought was cruel and punishing on your heart.

What was holding him back? Why shouldn’t he fall in love with you?

Then you realized.

Most people started off a new relationship revealing just bits of themselves—little fragments—and kept their skeletons tucked in the closet. You, however, sped full force ahead, running all the lights because the thought of falling in love with Bill never crossed your mind. You dove headfirst and put the bad and ugly on full display like it was a theatre show. You picked apart your family at every given chance, only to realize too late, when you’d irreversibly fallen for him, that he was searching for someone kind and familial. While he was cherishing time with his siblings, you were picking fights with Draco and your cousins. You felt sick.

Bill was probably ready to settle down, probably ready to have children of his own. You were still a child, directionless and going about your days with no goal in end. How could he like someone who bar-hopped with his younger brothers every summer? You were also barely four years in the working world, Bill was teetering on thirteen. Age, especially the gap between you and Bill, was never an issue for you and you’d never even thought about it. Now combing through all the reasons Bill wouldn’t like you back, it was blaring red.

You laughed blithely. It was your fault. You had fucked it up. You felt the first tears pooling in your eyes. Just a little, you promised. Then you’d stop crying.

You scooted over to look for the tissues in the drawer, but instead, your fingers found Bill’s letter he’d sent the morning after the first dinner. That fated dinner felt like yesterday and ages ago all at once. You were never going to get that back, the first meeting, the comfortable friendship you’d built with Bill. If he mentioned he was trotting off to Egypt back then, you wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. Now, things were complicated beyond repair.

Against better judgement, you began to read.

‘My love….’

Instantaneously, you came to a devastating realization that you’d never hear those words out of his mouth. And the thought of that burst the damn. There were hot tears running down your face now. You tried to keep quiet, but your heart amplified what you felt: sheer pain.

The one thing abating the pain was you letting yourself go and dissolving into a cathartic mess. Bill Weasley had reduced you to a lovesick fool and you’d sworn you’d let no man do it.

Feeling uncomfortable after sitting on the ground for so long, you moved up from the carpeted floor to the bed. You reached from the tissues on the nightstand and just laid there, twitching as sporadic sobs racked your body. You remained immobile otherwise, the net result of two opposing forces acting on you: one, telling you to go to Bill, and the other advising you to let it go.

Let him go.

It was probably hours that you’d cycled through napping and crying. You fancied daydreams where you pretended your bed was the same bed you slept in Nice, and that you’d never left the comfort of being by Bill’s side, of being close to him and the water. When you woke up to a different room than you envisioned, you grimaced and cried. In between, you had dreams of someone calling your name repeatedly.

The sun was low when you’d woken up for the umpteenth time. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you knew they were probably red and swollen. You still heard calls for your name, and you quickly realized you weren’t dreaming.

“What are you doing in there?” a sharp voice called from outside the door. “Didn’t you hear the call for dinner?”

You sat paralyzed. It was Draco.

“I’ll come later!” you yelled. The last person you wanted to reveal your weakened state to was your menace of a brother.

“We’ve been calling you for the last half hour!” he stated impatiently. “What’s wrong with you? Come down for supper.”

You panicked. You really didn’t want to be questioned or seen by anyone right now. “I’m fine! Go on, eat without me!”

Draco knocked again. “I don’t believe you one bit. Let me in!”

“I’m fine!” you repeated. “Mind your own business!”

“I gave you a fair enough warning. I’m opening the door.”

“I swear I will kill you if you do,” you threatened.

He jangled the doorknob with more force. “Then open it yourself! You’re acting like a petulant child, (Y/N)!”

The will to fight with him was leaving your body. You were tired, beaten down, and parched for water and even someone to confide in. You didn’t imagine it’d be Draco, but at some point, you needed to let someone in and offer you guidance. You pushed yourself off the bed, your head feeling heavier than the rest of your body. You trundled the steps to the door and opened it slowly.

As if it were a joke, you looked at Draco with your tear-stained face, bloodshot eyes, mussed hair, and forced a wide smile. “Happy?” You knew he’d mock you endlessly, and this front was the best way to shield yourself against it.

You weren’t sure what to expect, but you didn’t expect Draco to take a step back. The snarl on his face quickly dissolved into a soft expression of surprise.

He had swallowed whatever he had wanted to say and instead asked, “What’s wrong?”

Your tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, obviously.”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I haven’t seen you cry for ages. Not since you broke your leg at Hogwarts after that stunt you tried pulling with your friends.”

“I was fine,” you murmured. “Same difference.”

He asked, without missing a beat, “Does it have to do with Weasley?”

You feebly shook your head.

Draco peered at you in disbelief.

A sob in your throat threatened to rise and manifest into a cry. You urged Draco into the room. “Shut the door,” you demanded.

Draco closed the door behind him and walked in. “You’re lying. I always know when you’re lying,” he immediately fired. “Much like I always know when you’re upset about something, or who it’s about—”

He stopped when your nose scrunched up again. Flustered, and probably not used to dealing with a crying sister or crying women in general, he grabbed a tissue from your nightstand and handed it over to you.

“So, it is Weasley,” he concluded.

You said nothing. You found it hard to honest with him; there was little trust with how often you went behind each other’s backs. But at some point, both of you needed to let your walls down and get to root of it all—you were siblings, after all.

“I take that as a yes,” he finished for you. “What happened? Has he not been treating you well?”

“No,” you blew into the tissue, “he’s moving.”

“Where? The cottage?”

“Egypt.”

“Egypt?” Draco repeated incredulously, then whispered under his breath, “What the fuck?” He looked back at you. “Is this a joke? I’m trying to be serious here with you, (Y/N). So, quit joking around.”

You looked at him with bleary eyes and shook your head. “I’m serious. I wish I wasn’t.”

“Have you discussed this together?” Draco continued. “That’s a rather large decision to make without your input.”

“He doesn’t need my input,” you said as you squeezed your eyes shut, wringing out more tears. “I officially do not matter to him.”

Draco looked at you, puzzled. “What do you mean? Have you broken up?”

You shook your head and paused for a while. You were fighting with yourself to tell Draco the truth, but there was still a chance that he’d be a righteous ass about it. Your resolve to rekindle your relationship could easily backfire on you. But the genuine look on his face swayed your decision.

“It means you were right. It was all a farce because I didn’t want to date Crabbe and I wanted to get mother and father off my back at the same,” you admitted with a grimace, cracking one eye open to gauge his expression. When he remained quiet, you continued.

 “So, yeah,” you finished with a hiccup. “We’re not actually together.”

“What?”

You rolled your eyes and pushed his arm. “Don’t tell them please,” you pleaded weakly. “Mother and father.”

Draco shook his head and stared at you. “I can’t believe it.”

“I know.” You fell back on the bed. “I think we did too good of a job, didn’t we? I’ve even persuaded myself to be in love with him.”

“No,” Draco corrected. “Truthfully, I thought I was mistaken near the end, in France. The beginning was a different story. I saw you kicking him under the table and his arm fly up.” He smiled when he saw you laugh through your clogged nose—at least his commentary was taking your mind off things. “You’re also an awful liar.”

“That’s because we’re family,” you explained. You motioned from your eyes to his with two fingers. “I’ve been your sister forever. I also know when you lie. I’ve been observing you for twenty-one years. I know you wet your bed when you were six, when we shared a bed in Switzerland, so don’t try blaming it on me again.”

A rare smile snaked its way on his face, then fell again. “I,” he looked away, embarrassed. “I know we haven’t had the best relationship the past couple of years.”

“And whose fault was that?”

Draco paused, not used to taking the blame for anything. So, you took the chance to speak to him, sibling to sibling. “I’ve never stopped caring for you, you know. You’re my little brother.” Your voice caught. “I could never imagine being cruel to you, but at times, it was the only way to talk to you.”

“I… somewhere along the lines, I was….” He paused, a glitch in this new sentimental and human Draco. “Too uptight and thought you were smearing the family name with who you associated with.” He shuffled a little. “But you’re my sister, you’ve always been there for me, whether it was sticking up for me in front of our parents or getting Pansy off my back. So, I’m….”

“You’re?” you egged, the corner of your lips lifting.

“I’m sorry.”

He obviously wasn’t used to these foreign words rolling off his tongue, but you accepted his apology regardless. You knew he meant it.

You peered up at him. “Truce?”

He nodded. “Truce.”

Then he added, “And I wasn’t serious about Crabbe. Even I find him revolting. Truthfully, I haven’t talked to him in years. I was mortified to have that goof as a friend.”

“You don’t want Crabbe as your brother-in-law?” you pressed.

Draco made a face. “I would actually hope you’d get disowned if that ever happened. You’re miles above him in any sort of league.”

“I don’t know,” you said, fiddling with your hair. “Father seems to approve of him.”

Draco’s face contorted in disgust at the thought of Crabbe as family. “Whatever happens with Weasley, just know you’re too good for him, too. If he fucks up, then it’s his loss.”

“You’re serious?”

“Have I ever said anything so nice to you?”

“Never!”

You propelled yourself off the bed. “Can I have a—?” you asked, reaching your arms out.

Before you could finish, Draco rolled his eyes and pulled you into a hug. He was a little stiff and robotic, but it felt just like the old days.

“Don’t expect this all the time,” he scoffed, one of his hands giving you a pat on the back of your head. He looked up at the ceiling in embarrassment. “It’s only because you’re upset.”

“I will expect one every day from now on,” you mumbled, heart bursting with love for your baby brother. It felt good to have him back just like things were. “Three every day if Bill moves to Egypt.”

“He’s not moving,” Draco reiterated, his voice holding firm. “Not if you have anything to do with it.”

You reached up to ruffle his perfect blonde hair. You were so glad you’d come home first. At home, you’d realized, there was always someone’s arms to cry into. Most of the times, it was your mother’s, but you welcomed change.

You sprinted in record time to the penthouse entrance after arriving at the gardens outside of it. Draco’s words renewed your confidence and pointed you in the right direction. There was no way you’d let Bill leave without him knowing how you felt. And Draco had affirmed that it was his loss if you he let you go. Bill’s loss. He was losing you, not vice versa.

You were hoping to catch Bill at home before he departed to the Burrow. You might’ve still gone there, but to have to confess your feelings to him within earshot of his family would be something you’d never live down.

You rushed past the concierge in hot pursuit for the speaker. You pressed one palm flush against the cool metal, the other finger shaking as you hammered down the numbers to connect to his suite. A voice responded after you hit the call button: “Hello?”

“Hello, Bill?” you called out frantically.

“(Y/N)?” he responded, voice fuzzy through the speaker. “What are you doing here?”

“I think,” you lied through deep pants, “I might’ve left something in your suitcase.”

“Okay,” he responded without question. “Come on up.”

Your heart was beating a thousand miles a minute on the lift. You did a final one-over of your appearance and it looked like the enchantment did a swell job at fixing your puffy and red eyes. You repeated everything you were going to say in your mind, a jumble of words sewn together into a somewhat coherent speech on your way here.

You mulled over the conversation like it was a looping film reel in your head, black-and-white and chock full of static. You were going to sit on the couch with Bill, your tone calm like you were an actual adult. If he craved maturity, then that’s what you were going to give him. You were going to listen to him. You were going to be rational. You were going to say, “Bill, I have to admit, I’m disappointed that you hadn’t talked to me about moving to Egypt first. Because, over the months, I’ve developed feelings for you,” and let the conversation carry on.

When the lift doors opened, a bubble of anxiety swelled in your chest. The penthouse was almost bare. Was it like this the first time you arrived? No, there was a French press on the counter and pans and tasteful Percy-picked paintings adorning the walls. There definitely weren’t full cardboard boxes tucked to the side.

“Hey.” Bill ran down the steps with a roll of tape in one hand and a flat box in the other. “What can I help you look for?”

Bill’s weight—rhythmic thuds—on the stairs reassured you he was real, still here beside you and not three thousand miles away. This time tomorrow though, he might not be. The thought triggered a stinging behind your eyes. The sorrow quickly turned into frustration as you realized in the past week, he hadn’t even bother to initiate conversation. He was acting like France was nothing more than a dream, that he didn’t spend most of his time beside you, sharing tender laughs and honest conversations. Why was it you who had to do all the legwork?

‘Compose yourself, (Y/N),’ you scolded. ‘Be mature, be rational.’ You were going— no, there was no chance of that as soon as the thought of Bill never being by your side again infiltrated your head again. Despite thinking you were wrung dry from the morning, you felt tears streaming down your cheeks.

It was Bill’s turn to panic. “Hey,” he said, setting up the folded-up cardboard box against the wall and running over, “what’s wrong?”

“Why?” was all you could choke out. The rest of your rehearsed speech washed out of your mind immediately when you saw his face.

“Why what?” Bill repeated.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?!” you exclaimed, voice pitching up as more tears leaked out of your eyes. There was a patch of hoarseness quilted in your voice but you continued, strained, “Why would you move and not tell me?”

“What?” Bill said. His face contorted in confusion. “I thought you knew, (Y/N).”

“The thing is, I didn’t know!” You gasped for breath. “You don’t need my permission to do anything, but you could’ve at least told me!”

“I think,” Bill’s hands cupped your cheeks, his thumb stroking a tear away, “we need to sit down and talk because I don’t think we’re on the same page.”

You just nodded, Bill’s calm tone abating your anger and your desire to ask whose fault it was that you weren’t eye-to-eye. You sat down on the couch facing the window on his left. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, its red hues seeping into the room, and you knew dinner at the Burrow was about to start soon.

“Firstly,” Bill said, reaching for a box of tissues on the coffee table and offering you to draw one. You reached for one but kept your face turned the other way towards the kitchen, unwilling to let Bill see you like this. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You bit your lip, mind flittering between whether or not to tell him the truth.

Eventually, after a few seconds of silence, you relented. “If I tell you, will you promise not to say anything until I’m finished?”

From the corner of your eye, Bill nodded.

“Okay.”

“You,” you mumbled quietly at first. You had decided: fuck it. If Bill was moving to Egypt, then you should just say everything that was on your mind. It wouldn’t matter if he rejected you since he was going to be miles away.

His face was pensive, eyebrows knitting and eyes squinted, like he was combing over everything that’s ever left his mouth. He laid his right arm motionless on the armrest.

“Was it… something I—?” He quickly stopped himself when you gave him an irksome glance, and he realized he’d broken your first rule of the conversation: don’t speak.

Your voice gained traction and you took advantage of the momentum to admit, “It wasn’t what you said, it was everything you didn’t say.”

“Bill,” you continued, turning your head to look at him. Everything you wanted to say, every feeling and secret you kept locked up in gold chains for the past few weeks, snapped and was spilling out like a torrent. “I know I can’t change the year I was born. And trust me, I’ve been in a right state because I can’t be older or more mature like you. I can’t change who my parents are or who I am or how we get along. I can’t be what you want. And I’ve never even considered any of this to be important or ever thought about it, but in the past week, it’s all I ever thought about, and—”

You squeezed your eyes shut and blotted your tears onto the tissue in your hand.

“When I think about why, it always loops back around to you. Because you’re all I can think about now. It pains me to be something you don’t want, like I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong. And it pains me that I matter so little to you that you can’t even share what goes on in your life with me. And it’s alright if you don’t feel the same way, but it’s taken such a toll on me, knowing you don’t care about me the way I care about you.”

Bill remained silent, his lips pressed tightly together. His hands were unmoving.

“Okay, I’m done,” you added quietly after taking a deep breath. You still couldn’t muster the courage to face him.

At the same time, Bill exhaled. “I don’t know what to respond to first,” he admitted. “But let’s go one by one, okay?”

Your body tensed. You liked talking a mile a minute, hoping that Bill would forget the barrage of words you hurled at him; Bill wanted to break everything down gently. Now, everything was in his hands and he could steer the conversation either way. You were dying for some semblance of your feelings being returned, but you were mainly preparing to be let down. At best, you would get closure before he left.

You sniffed, lips curving downwards, and nodded. 

“Firstly, there’s no need to change yourself,” Bill reminded. “You are lovely the way you are.”

“That’s not true,” you said with a shake of your head. “I’ve only shown you the worst parts of me, well, the real parts which are also the worst parts. For example, you’ve always talked so lovingly about your family. I’ve only talked mine down.”

“On the contrary,” Bill stated. “I think you have an excellent relationship with your family.” Bill shuffled slightly closer to you, trying to get you to look at him. “But tell me, (Y/N), what is this sudden fixation on our families?”

“I—you,” you stuttered, both at Bill’s inching closer towards you and the unabashed words that you were going to say, “you think it’s important, so it’s important to me.”

Bill chuckled. “People can be close to their family in different ways.”

“Can they?”

He nodded. “Have Fred and George told you? Mum was more upset than I’d ever seen her when they dropped out of school just months shy of finishing. She scolded them that entire week, then turned around to tell the neighbours how brilliant her boys were, the unconventional route they took and their success and all.”

He added, “She tells me women are turned off by my hair and earrings, then the same afternoon, tells her friends at her sewing club that I’m England’s most eligible bachelor. Doesn’t make any sense, really.”

You let out a nasally laugh that was more akin to a snort. “Really?”

“Really!” Bill affirmed with a smile. “You never know what your parents are saying behind your back.” He tilted his head, trying to see more of your face. “In France, your dad wouldn’t stop talking about you during the golf course. I thought he was boasting to your uncle Theodore as a game strategy, but he’d say the same to me in between holes.”

Bill continued on. “Draco told me you always stood up for him in front of your parents, and to his estranged lover.”

“Estranged—?”

“Pansy, I think her name was?” Bill filled in. “He was really mumbling the words out. Reckon he didn’t want to admit it.”

“Oh, right,” you said with a laugh. “She was a lot. Still a lot. Still in love with him.”

“You’ve had it harder than me, but that doesn’t mean you don’t love your family,” Bill stated. Then his tone bordered on teasing. “And (Y/N), there are other qualities I like in a woman, not just their relationship with family. I hope I’m not that one-dimensional.”

“I can imagine!” you sputtered, spinning around. “It was the only thing you told me and the only thing I had to go off of. I tried extrapolating the rest, but…”

You stopped talking when you realized Bill had your gaze in a headlock. That look in his eyes had you weak, some form of genuine curiosity and tenderness sparking in them. It was dangerous. It beckoned you to answer any question he asked.

“And what did you come up with?” he asked.

You grinded your teeth behind your sealed mouth. It was best to just say it, having already gone far past the point of no return. Still, you couldn’t help but feel mortified.

“I’d imagined you with a more mature woman. Someone who holds their liquor and doesn’t need assistance down the steps after a wedding. I’m the same age as Fred and George. They’re your younger brothers. Surely, you think of me the same.”

“I mean, yes, you are the same age, but I don’t think of you as a younger sister,” Bill explained. He scoffed before saying, “I mean, that would be unsettling if I did because—”

“Because?”

Bill’s lips suddenly quirked up into a sheepish grin. It was now his turn to be reluctant and quiet. His blue eyes shifted to a random corner of the room.

“Because what?” you fished, your palm flat on the couch in anticipation. Inside, your heart was erratic, pounding against your chest. You just needed to hear the right words to push you over the edge.

“I do fancy you.”

You jaw lowered slightly. Did you hear that right? He did fancy you. Suddenly, you were floating. Your ears were ringing, blood was rushing through your brain, euphoria cycling through your veins, and you felt almost delightfully faint. He didn’t just say that, did he? You were definitely imagining it. But you couldn’t have been, given how Bill’s face, and the flush of red by his ears, slowly dappling his cheeks over his freckles, was so clear.

“Can you say that again?”

Bill burst into laughter at your reaction. “It was hard enough the first time.” He remarked the pleading expression on your face before obliging. “(Y/N), I do fancy you quite a bit. I hope it was more obvious than not.”

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up,” you whispered. “Because it would kill me if you didn’t feel the same.”

“Do you remember what we said when we were at the shop, planning out,” he used air quotes, “our future?”

“What part of it?”

“When I said familiarity was uneasy.”

“Yes.” You could recall that perfectly. It was when he asked you why you didn’t choose his brothers to play out your schemes with.

“I’m glad we met under the pretenses we did,” Bill recalled. “We were able to show each other everything, no secrets or lies. And like I thought, there was nothing bad about you to uncover anyway.”

“I’m glad,” you sighed, feeling the last bit of stress dissipating from your body. “Because I thought I’d lost you for the same reason.”

Bill cleared his throat. “So, your age matters little to me. What matters to me is that you are intelligent, kind, and delightfully mischievous with your schemes,” the corner of his lip crooked up into a smile, “not to mention, you are really quite beautiful.”

Your eyes softened and your heart was beating erratically against your chest; you were just elated that Bill loved parts of you that you didn’t think he did.

Well, that was before he added, “And how could I forget? I do love your tendency to enjoy debauchery in the form of books.”

“Will you,” you grabbed a pillow beside you, “stop bringing,” and chucked it at Bill, “that up?!”

“There’s nothing wrong with that! It just means you are well-read,” Bill reasoned, evading the cushion flung his way. “If anything, learning to iron robes and how to best polish oxfords can be very useful.”

You gave him a pointed look.

“Not that I expect you to know,” he clarified quickly, horrified at how you could’ve interpreted it. He pointed to his chest. “I was keeping it in mind for myself.”

“You better not!” you chided, though a wide grin was breaking out across your face. You didn’t look intimidating in the slightest.

With Bill’s joke dispelling the tension, the air cleared enough to ask him another question, another itch only his words could scratch. “If it wasn’t my age, or my family, or even me, then what was, or is, stopping you from...?”

“I…” Bill trailed off. “You know, it’s never a good idea to get into one relationship too quickly after another. You could be using someone to satisfy a void.”

“Right,” you agreed without thinking. But what did you know? Bill had been previously committed, and you’d never been attached to anyone past three dates.

“I’m human, I’ve made mistakes, I try to learn from them.” His fingers ghosted over your temple before brushing a renegade hair from your face. “It would be unfair to drag you into something because I was selfish and unsure.”

“But it’s been almost a year now, surely?” you said. “I thought most people did this rebounding thing right after. I’m not saying it means you should be ready, I’ve just heard—”

“I know, I know,” he agreed. “But you’re just,” he stopped, looking down at you with a gentle and lopsided smile that made your legs wobbly, “something I wanted to take my time with. I don't know if I could live with myself if I hurt you in the slightest.”

You pressed, “Has your opinion changed at all? Since then?”

Bill grinned. “Of course it has.”

You felt more at ease now. “What’s changed it?”

“I missed you in the days we were apart. I really did, (Y/N).” His face showed calm but there was something frantic in his pulse, his words, his entire being. “All summer, Gringrotts wrote to me and wanted me to stay in Egypt as I was doing a fairly good job over there. The European branches sent Fleur to convince me to move to Belgium instead. But when I came home, I realized I missed being with my family.”

You listened wordlessly, wonderstruck at the fact that someone like Bill Weasley existed.

“With mum and dad getting older, I knew I needed to stay home and take care of them if anything happened. They’ve already lost Charlie to Romania and Percy to the Ministry.” He ended the statement with a chuckle.

“Bill, that is so very considerate of you,” you spoke through shallow breaths, “but after all this, you’re still moving?”

“Yes, but it’s not very far away.”

You raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Egypt is over three-thousand miles from here.”

“Egypt?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Where did you hear I was moving to Egypt?”

“From George, I—”

“I mean, I was considering it, but I’ve ultimately decided to stay here.” He pointed down with his index finger. “Shell Cottage is a very easy floo away from home.” Then, with an impish smile, he added, “But you know, my family wasn’t the only thing anchoring me.”

“It wasn't?”

A serious expression eclipsed Bill’s face. “I thought of you.”

He thought of you.

“You seem to have an influence over my decisions.” Bill leaned over and in a near whisper, continued. “I thought that if there was any chance that if we,” he looked right at you, “worked out in any sense, me being in Egypt would not make anything easier.”

“Why would we not work out?” you said, apprehension creeping in your voice. If Bill expressed any doubt this far in the conversation, you weren’t sure how you’d take it. He couldn’t take back a confession, he just couldn’t.

“(Y/N), you have to admit,” Bill began, catching your gaze again. You felt your heart stutter at his intense look and those mesmerizing baby blues. “It’s been confusing for me, too. You chose me as your fake lover based on things you were opposed to: my hair, tattoos, my age. Especially my age, I’ve heard. How was I supposed to ask you about it?”

“What?” you blurted out. “Bill, I adore the first two things and I’ve stopped thinking about how old you were. It never even crosses my mind anymore unless someone is bringing it up.”

You took one of his larger hands, heart swelling at how natural it felt, and urged him to look at you. You were trying to convey your thoughts earnestly through touch, like your hands were intertwined with his heart.

“The goal was to make my parents upset, and I thought it worked but it turns out they really like you, especially the golf abilities you’ve kept hidden for thirty years,” you admitted. You reached out to gingerly stroke Bill’s hair, the short locks softly sliding past your fingers. “I truthfully adore all these things: your long hair, tattoos, piercings. And if it were up to me, you’d never cut your hair again.”

“Shame,” he said. “I was starting to like the length. It’s rather airy in the summer.”

“Just the summer, then. I’m willing to negotiate.” You pointed to the fang earring. “But this,” you gently touched it with your free hand, “is non-negotiable. In fact, you could use another piercing or two.”

“Noted,” Bill responded.

“And please, keep these rings,” you mumbled, your fingers falling to admire the bands of silver taut on his fingers. Your voice was now barely audible as you whispered to yourself, “This is quite literally the most attractive thing I’ve seen on a man.”

“What was that?” Bill asked, leaning in unbearably close now. You felt a spark on your lips where was looking.

“Nothing, I, er,” you fumbled, trying to redirect his attention. When you looked up, you saw it: the last object of your adoration. It was his eyes – those blue lifelines to his heart. You leaned in, just inches away from him and the closest you’d ever been, and placed a hand softly on his face, unknowingly flittering over a scar. “Your eyes are beautiful, I… there are no words to describe them.”

He brushed a loose strand of your back and tucked it behind your ear. “Then don’t.”

That was all he said before he closed the short distance between you. Your heart soared when you felt the rougher texture of his lips on your soft ones. You knew at the very least, you had to close your eyes like he had, but you wanted to see him for just another second. You wanted to soak in Bill like he was the sea, let him wash over every sense—sight, touch, taste—you had.

Bill was gentle, gradually easing you into the kiss, giving you air when he felt you needed it. The thing was that you didn’t need air, you just needed more of him. He chuckled when he felt you nudging him closer.

Half of you knew he was physically here, while the half was wondering if you were in some daydream. So, you treaded along precariously, trying not to disturb this lucid dream you found yourself in. Merlin knew how much you would’ve given to kiss Bill Weasley just a month ago.

You drifted from the kiss slowly to confirm something. “So, does this mean…?”

“I’d like to have you as my girlfriend, if you’d have it.” He stated it like there was any chance of hesitation on your end, which there wasn’t.

“Bill,” you exhaled with elation, letting out a relieved breath. “That’s not even a question.”

He moved both his hands to caress the back of your head, fingers tangling with your soft locks. His grip was firmer when he pulled you back towards him.  Your lips met again, but this time, he deepened the kiss, was a touch more dominant than he was just seconds ago. You obliged immediately, waltzing with him in the intimate dance. Surely, you weren’t as experienced as Bill was, but he guided you perfectly, urging you to part your lips with a gentle prod of his tongue. He tilted his head to gain better access just as his hands slithered down your body. He gripped your waist firmly, and then did something that sent a shiver down your spine.

He let out a low, guttural groan.

“You are worth the wait,” he breathed huskily. “You’ve been driving me insane for months, (Y/N).”

Before you could flush even deeper at his words, he quickly pulled you over his lap so your legs were splayed out on each side of him. Your pulse grew frantic as both you and Bill shed any sense of slow and steady and replaced it with fast and vigorous. If you weren’t already overheated, you sure were now, feeling the harder parts of him against parts of you that were aching, hearing his desire for you aloud. You unknowingly grinded into him, trying to dissipate the want building. You were a mess of heat and occasionally, the clashing of teeth, which even if imperfect, spoke to the feverish pitch things were reaching.

His hands travelled past the hem of your skirt, doting the back of your thighs until they were positioned on your rear. He kneaded the soft skin and it was your turn to groan.  

Bill’s eyes darkened slightly as you straddled his lap. His fingers tightened on your skin until you were sure they’d leave red marks. “I’m a man, (Y/N). I have my own urges to act upon, but.”

“But?” you asked, feeling whiplashed at Bill’s sudden stop.

“But, I do think I should take you somewhere nice first.” He slicked his hair back and tilted his head up to look at you. “That’s only proper, isn’t it?”

“I suppose?” you responded with an inflection, your heart fluttering in hummingbird beats, much too fast to speak coherently. You still felt like you’d ascended to the heavens, your mind in a state so blissful and delirious that you were half-responding to Bill. “I don’t mind either way, really, I…”

“Alright,” Bill agreed. “Then we’ll sort out how you’d like to proceed after the dinner I promised mum to go to.”

“The dinner,” you repeated. You’d forgotten all about it in the heat of things. You were just overjoyed it wasn’t a farewell dinner for Bill. “I can wait until you’re back.”

“What are you talking about?” he questioned with a laugh. He pushed himself off the couch with you in tow and your legs wrapped around his waist. “We’re going to the dinner.” Then he leaned in again, his breath fanning your face. “Together.”

“Are you sure?” you asked shyly, nervous at the prospect of facing the entire Weasley family and more. “I mean, a family dinner. It seems like a big thing, doesn’t it?”

With Bill hoisting you up, you were finally taller than him. You were privy to things you didn’t normally get to see, like how his long lashes framed his eyes, how sturdy the bridge of his nose was, and how tempting his lips looked pulled into a smirk. If you had a say, you’d forego the dinner and kiss him all night instead.

 “You took me to one,” he countered.

“Under false pretenses,” you said, scrunching your face up.

“Okay, consider this a family dinner that is actually entirely truthful. This is a second chance to do things right and not lie about anything.”

“Who said I was lying about anything?” you snickered. “Maybe I do want seven children and to never retire and to fly around in the Ford Anglia everywhere.”

Bill shook his head. “I don’t think anyone would be happy with oil leaking from the sky. Kingsley would tax you for environmental damages under the new green law.” He tossed a wink your way, knowing exactly how to counteract your sarcasm, and said, “But I would be happy to oblige your other requests.”

“No!” you yelped, clasping your hands over your mouth. The thought of the rest of your life inundated by seven kids and little Freds and Georges clinging to your sides was a nightmare. How did Molly do it? Bill was forcing himself not to laugh. You knew he was only joking, but you couldn’t help but give him a little slap on the arm.

You looked directly at him. “In all seriousness, should we tell them one-by-one?” you asked.

“What about?”

“About us,” you responded. “We shouldn’t give your mother a heart attack.”

“(Y/N),” Bill assured with a breath-taking smile, spinning you around in his arms. The look on his face was luminous. He really was the sun that broke the storm. “We’re going to tell the whole world tonight.”

Epilogue

Standing on the hilly and grassy entrance of the Burrow, Bill was appraising you with concern. He could sense the rigidity in your body as he held your hand.

“How are you feeling, love?”

“Relieved and nervous,” you explained. “Relieved because this isn’t your farewell party. Nervous because it’s your family.”

“You know my family,” Bill reminded. “There is nothing to worry about.”

“Are you completely certain this is a good idea?” you asked. “I don’t want to overwhelm them.”

“I’ve never had a bad idea,” he boasted with a toothy smile.

Bill pushed the creaky wooden door open for you, his hand still clasped on yours, unwilling to let go of your fingers in case you wanted to escape. He ducked under the doorframe as he entered. You followed him into the Burrow—Bill’s childhood home. You’ve been here before but this just felt different, like you were now a part of the family and not just an extension of it. You shied away, thinking Molly would be right there. She wasn’t. You saw Percy in the living room, turned away and nose in a book. Charlie, who you were surprised to see had returned from Romania, was pouring himself beer from the pitcher. Molly was snipping herbs from her potted plant by the windowsill, oblivious to your arrival.  

Charlie was the first to look up, being the closest to you, at you and your hands intertwined. A slow, devious, and somewhat knowing smile creeped up on his face. Bill shushed him and Charlie covered his mouth with his free hand. Of course, Charlie remained silent, tempted to see how his mother would react.

“Hi, mum,” Bill called from across the room.

“Bill, darling,” she responded offhandedly, preoccupied by the finishing touches she was putting on her vegetable roast. She was slow to turn around, more focused on carrying a heavy dish with her oven mitts. And when she did, her eyes landed on your faces first.

“(Y/N)!” she called. “How nice of you to bring her, Bill.”

Her eyes were still locked on your face and hadn’t made the connection. Your breath caught when Molly’s eyes began trailing downwards in what felt like an eternity.

You didn’t know what to expect, but you didn’t expect to cause such a scene. Molly literally dropped her dish on the floor at the sight of your hand in Bill’s. The ceramic dish shattered and the vegetable roast flew in all directions. Percy jolted from his position on the couch, his cry overshadowed by the stew boiling over and the kettle wailing beside it.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed. She seemed so flustered she didn’t know which way to go—to embrace you or to clean up the mess on the floor or to turn off the stove with the overflowing stew. “I had my suspicions, oh, I—”

In desperation, she called out for her husband to help with one of those tasks. “Arthur!”

He quickly ran in, cheeks rosy, and out of breath.

“What’s the danger?” he panted, looking left and right.

“Oh, Arthur!” Molly exclaimed with a roll of her eyes, her hand on her hip. “There’s no danger.” She pointed to where you stood. Arthur, still unaware, looked over. Bill raised your hand and gave it a little shake. Molly couldn’t control her excitement, so she ran over. You imagined she was tumbling towards Bill, but she chose you instead. You let go of Bill’s hands to hug her.

“My future daughter-in-law!” she exclaimed, patting your cheeks. “Oh, I knew it! I just knew it. You are just so perfect for my Bill.”

“I think that’s an approval from mum,” Bill said to Charlie who was standing offside.

“She’s already making Christmas sweaters for your children,” Charlie teased with a snicker.

“Bill! Come and help me with the vegetables,” Molly commanded, sending over an apron from the closet that was likely too small for him.

Bill looked at the flimsy piece of fabric in his hands. He only had a couple inches of string to work with. “Mum, I think this is Ginny’s—”

Then, Molly pointed to her spilt dish. “Arthur, sweetie, clean this up. And (Y/N),” she guided you by the shoulders and towards the couch where Percy was, “you just sit here and Percy will bring you a beverage.”

“I told you, mum’s a modern feminist,” Bill said to you with a wink. He managed to get a tiny knot from the apron. “How do I look?”

“You look fit,” you complimented. The tiny apron was accentuating all the right muscles. “And in regards to your mother, rightfully so. Millicent be damned.”

“I’m not opposed to her tips in the later chapters,” Bill added with a smirk, causing your face to flush.

“I’ve read it so many times, I have it memorized,” you assured. “You’ll have to find out later.” Bill’s mouth rounded in surprise first, not used to this side of you, before morphing into a more smouldering expression.

“Hey!” Charlie interjected from across the room. “Just because you’re together doesn't mean we all have to be subject to this.”

“You’ve read this book, Charlie?” Bill asked, steering his brother away. “Let me tell you all about (Y/N)’s favourite author…”

“Watch it,” you whispered in the most intimidating tone you could muster.

Bill quickly spring into action with his mother who was appraising his domestic skills. You admired his tall figure, his fingers lithely paring a potato with a peeler.

Bill’s tall figure was quickly replaced by Percy, who looked abashed as he brought a beer over to you.

“I….”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off. “I know. I’m a selfish person, I’m working on it.”

“You’re not selfish. I shouldn’t have jumped to assumptions,” he conceded. “It’s a bad habit of mine.”

“It’s not,” you reassured.

Percy nodded and let a moment of silence linger over you before asking, “Say, how did you arrange that meeting with Rookwood?”

“Would you like to know?” you said with a smile. “I can set you up.”

At dinner, Bill sat beside you. You didn’t need much integrating or any introductions; you’d been here already and there was already a seat for you. Occasionally and to your pleasure, he’d take your hand under the dinner table, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“So,” Molly started as she sat down. She looked directly at you two. “I’d like to know this happened.”

Neither you or Bill could contain your laughter, given the wild story you were about to tell. You were the first to recover, and slowly, you began, “It started, around a table just like this…”

After dinner and dessert was had, you and Bill departed for the backyard. You were swinging with him on a hammock, away from the commotion inside, and watching the stars. They were exceptionally clear tonight, or maybe it was that being with Bill made the world slightly brighter.

“Bill?” you asked, snuggling in closer to him to shield yourself from the cold.

He turned to you. “Hm?”

“You’re coming to Nice next year, too?”

“Of course,” he responded, like there wasn’t even a flicker of doubt.

“And the next?”

“And the next,” he affirmed. “I wouldn’t even question it.”

“Good,” you said with a blissful sigh.

Under the starry night, you counted your blessings and thanked the heavens as you soaked Bill in. After days and weeks of fluxing emotions, he’d made it clear tonight: he was yours, yours for the rest of your life if you made sure of it.

Unbeknownst to you, the twins sat on the couch inside murmuring amongst themselves.

“You cheated,” Fred accused. “He wasn’t going to Egypt anyway.”

“That wasn’t one of the rules, Freddie. It’s not like I made them kiss or anything,” George said with a shrug. “I only accelerated what was going to eventually happen.”

Fred cursed under his breath as he gave George galleons he lost. That was a good whole month of pay, all gone! 

“I thought she’d be a little more resilient than that.”

“Hm, shows you don’t know her that well,” George said with a smirk, depositing the money in his pockets.

“I hate to say that it was well-played, but poor (Y/N). You did a number to her heart there.” Fred said with a pout. “I think she really thought he was moving to Egypt.”

“Now our poor sweet (Y/N), stolen by the treacherous grasp of our eldest brother,” George lamented.

“Not like she would’ve chosen you anyway.”

Fred placed his hand over his heart, offended. “Nor would she you.” Then he leaned back on the couch, watching you from outside the window, swaying on the hammock with Bill. You’d been out there for almost an hour.

George spun the gleaming gallon on the table.  

“Now, next on the list of affairs to bet on: when’s the wedding?”

<<CHAPTER DIRECTORY (READ IT AGAIN!)

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